Ever the collector (and mishandler) of metaphors and idioms, I am thrilled to come across a new one to add to my quiver of possibility. The new metaphor, ‘the fruit throwers’, is perfectly suited to those occasions when I find myself pressed into rising irritation with something that really shouldn’t be sending my zen out of whack. It has the effect of making my armies stand down, maybe it’s the memory of the Mrs Doubtfire ‘run by fruiting’ scene… Ah, humor as antidote, so sweet, so perfect for all the rushing we do this time of year.

Government
By Marie Howe

Standing next to my old friend I sense that his soldiers have retreated.
And mine? They’re resting their guns on their shoulders
Talking quietly. I am hungry, one says.
Cheeseburger says another,
And they all decide to go find some dinner.

But the next day, negotiating the too narrow isles of
The Health and Harmony Food Store— when I say, Excuse me,
to the woman and her cart of organic chicken and green grapes
she pulls the cart not quite far back enough for me to pass,
and a small mob in me begins picking up fruit to throw.

So many kingdoms,
And in each kingdom, so many people: the disinherited son, the corrupt
counselor,
the courtesan, the fool.
And so many gods—arguing among themselves,
over toast, through the lunch salad
and on into the long hours of the mild spring afternoon— I’m the god.
No I’m the god. No I’m the god.

I can hardly hear myself over their muttering.
How can I discipline my army? They’re exhausted and want more money.
How can I disarm when my enemy seems so intent?

…

Thanks again to Marie Howe whose volumes of poetry I am thoroughly enjoying getting to know.

POMEGRANATE
You tell me I am wrong.
Who are you, who is anybody to tell me I am wrong?
I am not wrong.

In Syracuse, rock left bare by the viciousness of Greek women.
No doubt you have forgotten the pomegranate-trees in flower,
Oh so red, and such a lot of them.

Whereas at Venice
Abhorrent, green, slippery city
Whose Doges were old, and had ancient eyes.
In the dense foliage of the inner garden
Pomegranates like bright green stone,
And barbed, barbed with a crown.
Oh, crown of spiked green metal
Actually growing!

Now in Tuscany,
Pomegranates to warm, your hands at;
And crowns, kingly, generous, tilting crowns
Over the left eyebrow.

And, if you dare, the fissure!

Do you mean to tell me you will see no fissure?
Do you prefer to look on the plain side?

For all that, the setting suns are open.
The end cracks open with the beginning:
Rosy, tender, glittering within the fissure.

Do you mean to tell me there should be no fissure?
No glittering, compact drops of dawn?
Do you mean it is wrong, the gold-filmed skin, integument,
shown ruptured?

For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken.
It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack.

A big black cat named Napoleon moved in next door and Gaiter, my ever so zen pup, has been troubled by it. Got me thinking about why some things can just set us off…

And All the While

Napoleon arrived in our neighborhood today, he stood outside the sliding door to our deck — crying out as though in need of help— as though in pain. I went to investigate. Gaiter stood behind me vigilant. Who IS this outsider? Who is this provocateur? Why does he make me feel this way? I want to bark, shout to the heavens —this is all wrong, THIS is all wrong.

And all the while unconvinced of my rightness. Why do I feel injured? Is it instinct? Intuition? Why do I feel some things have happened that I do not understand?* How do we know the rightness or wrongness of our feelings? Are we in control?

My very being is miffed looking at him. I wait for the same gesture, the one that drives me crazy, his way of moving, of expressing himself, his manipulated truths. How can a warp and weft cut so deep, defy the bodhisattva?

And all the while I see the knowing, behind his insouciant big-eyed innocence, whispering — this will make me look good, this will make me famous.

*With a nod to the OnBeing interview with Marie Howe that got me fired up to write it out…